It started with a scream
by SoonerOrLaterSherlock
Summary: When John has a nightmare Sherlock is left unsure how to help


It started with a scream as it always did the kind of blood curdling terror that had blood in its eyes he knew- he had heard enough of them. Usually he was not ashamed to say, for what was the point of such an emotion, one that had only a negative impact on the feeler that such a noise often made his pulse quicken. Such a scream in his experience meant a crime or something adjacent to a crime was happening, and nearby. Something, virtually the only thing that filled him with such, dare he consider it excitement, no not even that, happiness, fulfilment.

Not this scream though, nor the dozens of others that have severed Sherlock's sleep intermittently over the last few months. There were patterns, and as always where there were patterns, exceptions peaks and troughs. Things that had happened to them triggered them , things on the television programmes he insisted on watching, trivial police drams whose mystery was evident within the first minute as Sherlock often liked to point out.

The scream was followed by a thud. John's small feet attached to his stubby little legs hitting the floor above. Gentle taps followed as he padded towards the window, a creak as he heaves the old fashioned window frame up and inhales the midnight scent of Baker Street. Sherlock often wondered if he opened it for the refreshing air to blow away metaphoric cobwebs or if he was checking London, not some God forsaken field in Afghanistan was still outside his window. If one believed in such forces as God that was, he wondered not for the first time, if John Watson did, he seemed the type to harbour some residual elements of a Church of England upbringing.

The soft padding moved back to the bed and a creaking groan of springs as his weight settled, he never lay down immediately but sat, presumable staring at the wall. On his bed, several feet above, what Sherlock couldn't see was John looking down, as he did every time wondering- debating should he make a sign? There could be no doubt his flatmate by now knew of the dreams, or at least the screams that signalled their arrival to the outside world. Within the first few weeks and months it may have gone unnoticed-Sherlock when he slept at all, was unconscious to all but minor explosions-John knew as this theory had been tested resolutely within two months of moving in. He was also unpredictable in his sleep patterns, going for days without rest, prowling the city at night like the cat John sometimes unfavourably compared him to. But as time wore on these erratic patterns, along with many others had been if not eroded then subdued, John wasn't entirely arrogant enough to put it down to his presence, but a routine, an arrangement had been met. And with it, he knew Sherlock heard him, he knew that as he padded back to his bed as the springs creaked as he sat, unable to entertain the thought of sleep, that bellow him Sherlock Holmes was listening.

Laying staring up at the ceiling Sherlock raised a hand, a foolish gesture-to do what exactly? He couldn't knock on the ceiling, he couldn't be seen and even if he could, he knew he wouldn't. So did John. The embarrassment on both their parts would be too high, to admit aloud he knew, and that he had heard every time. He let his hand drop, resting on his stomach and sighed.

'Imbecile' he cursed himself.

He knew what happened with increasing frequency in the room above him, John knew that he knew and John knew that he knew that he knew. It was all a terribly British charade of manners, something which usually, as he was constantly reminded, he was usually shockingly remiss. He stare at the ceiling again, all it would take was to get up, two paces to the door, four across the living room, seventeen stairs and to raise that same hand that was now gripping his nightshirt so tightly his knuckles were white.

A loud knock sent Sherlock spiralling upwards like a guilty teenager, arriving upright his dishevelled curls standing to attention with the force of the movement.

'Making tea' said John from the doorway, the door of which Sherlock never bothered to close, for all appearances unruffled and put together in his pressed cotton pyjamas and navy towelling dressing gown, the only thing remiss was-

'Slippers'

'What?' John furrowed his brow and blinked at Sherlock.

'You've forgotten to put slippers on'

John glanced down at his feet as though seeing them for the first time. He blinked again.

'You were in a hurry'

'No. No I wasn't'

'You were sitting on the bed, now you're here and you've forgotten your slippers. Why the rush?'

'No rush.' Said John evenly but with a tone an eighth higher than its normal pitch caught with the emotion of whatever he encountered in the room above.

'You leave your slippers at the end of the bed like your milarty boots; you needed to pass them to leave the room. If you hadn't been rushing there is no way you would have missed them. What were you rushing to or from?'

John regarded him for a moment, as he often did after one of his deductions; 'I'm not going to ask how you know where I was sitting. I'm going to make tea.' John turned around and stomped three paces, seventeen stairs, two more paces back to his room, stuffed his feet angrily into his slippers and retraces his steps, he mutters 'Can't even move in my own bloody room in peace.'

He shuffled into the kitchen, cursing the slippers as they scuffed on the linoleum causing him to trip in his hurry, causing the hastily half on half off garments to be left behind briefly. He stuffed his small feet once again back into the battered old Marks and Spencer's slippers and began to clatter around the kitchen. Infuriated by the man he'd somehow found himself sharing not only a flat but a life with. He banged and crashed to try and drown out his thoughts which were rudely interrupted by a barely concealed yelp when he opened the fridge to find what he hoped were a large jar of animal intestines. They weren't there when he went to bed. Gingerly he moved it out to the way and retrieved the milk, which was thankfully still sealed and fresh.

He set it on the counter and let out a deep sigh. The blackness swirling around his temples was beginning to clear. Dark clouds still hung around the periphery threatening to close in, that was why he'd forgotten his slippers, he'd felt it sitting on the bed as he had a hundred, a thousand times before. The hard lump of panic in his chest that rose from the dream usually subsided with the light, with the air, with consciousness. Lately however that wasn't enough. He knew Sherlock knew above the dreams, any normal flatmate would have figured it out within a week; John wouldn't have put it past Sherlock to work it out in that first meeting. The screams, the midnight tea making, crap telly in the middle of the night, it hardly took a consulting detective to work that one out.

Several times Sherlock, who claimed to hate television so vehemently when John had first brought one into the flat, now took great delight in its many treasures. His favourite sport, when crime solving, dissection and chemical explosions had been exhausted was systematic ridicule and deconstruction of whatever was on television, particularly crime based dramas. This was their routine in the down time between cases, when John wasn't attempting something resembling a normal dating life and Sherlock wasn't in one of his dark moods. They would settle like normal flatmates, for an evening of television. But there was something more, another unspoken need fulfilled by John's ancient TV inherited from Harry.

After he made tea, as he waited for the blackness, the tightening in his chest to subside John would turn on the television, volume low, not for fear of waking Sherlock as if he'd been asleep he no longer was, more the depths of the night seemed to require a muted version of the garishness it offered in the daylight hours. After and interval Sherlock would flit from his lair, pretending to be intrigued by whatever John was watching, or to need something from the kitchen. Then he would settle on what John thought of as his sofa, John in his armchair, and begin accompanying whatever late night film John had found with his commentary of acerbic remarks. John rolled his eyes and scorned him, told him to go away if he had nothing nice to say, but he always stayed, knowing that was what John really needed. The television gave him a sense of normality, Sherlock's comments likewise. Once or twice, after a particularly bad incident he did something else, he picked up the tea that John now habitually made for both of them, threw it away and before John had time to scold him, replaced it with scotch. They he'd sat, in silence watching the film until the scotch and the late hour had lulled John into sleep. He'd awoken with the light to find Sherlock still there, seeming not to have moved as if on guard, silent stoic and as much as he hated to admit it, mesmerising in his own strange way.

Much as he was now, even though he couldn't see him.

'What do you want now?'

'Clearly I underestimate your observational skills John. Or you're learning something finally.'

He turned around to see Sherlock leaning nonchalantly on the door frame, blue dressing gown stylishly dishevelled as always, wrapped but not tied around his wiry frame grey t shirt and too big pyjama bottoms adding to his overall ruffled but elegant appearance. It was all John could do not to throw the mug in his hand directly at his head. Then he looked down.

'No slippers'

'Excellently observed again'

John furrowed his brow trying to deduce what Sherlock was implying by not wearing his own slippers. Then again he didn't always wear slippers, or did he? John shook his head in an attempt to clear it, still feeling like dark clouds were obscuring his vision. He had to know what the point was, it had become something of a game, and Sherlock occasionally tested him either for his amusement he assumed or perhaps some other purpose to which he was not yet privy. If John could just focus he could figure it out he was sure.

The kettle began to boil furiously behind him as Sherlock fixed him in his gaze. Normally the presence of others, particularly as he though he hated to admit it, his newly acquired flatmate calmed the darker elements of his psyche that tended to take over when left unattended. Even when he was being infuriating.

Tonight somehow that wasn't the case, he felt a tightening in his stomach and he knew he should move, move quickly to his room to let this play out privately. As much as his mind knew what was coming and he urged his legs to move to escape the now alert eyes of Sherlock his body would not or could not respond. The tightening spread to his chest and he felt it constrict squeezing the air from his lungs. The blackness in the corners of his eyes began to grow.

John heard the click of the kettle as loud as a gunshot and fell backwards, gripping the counter top to steady him as the vice like grip around his chest took hold and searing pain ripped through him as he struggled to breathe. Pitching forward as another wave racked his body and the last air seemed to strip from his lungs the floor fast approaching he was conscious enough to think might knock him out, a welcome reprieve from this blinding pain. If he was lucky he might black out before he suffocated. He braced himself for impact.

He landed but not on the cold tiles as anticipated, something soft-ish but angular. The scent was somehow familiar-expensive aftershave mixed with potent chemicals, it smelled like coming home but his brain wasn't processing why. He felt another tightening around him, but not within him before everything went black.

Sherlock felt John's smaller but substantial forms grow limp and heavy in his arms, the impact of the fall throwing his head into his face. A rush of breathe compensating for the impact at the same time meant a rush of scent, a fresh minty shower gel cut with a more floral note of shampoo went spiralling into his nostrils. His scent changed with whatever was on special offer at the supermarket but somehow there was always a note of him.

John was limp in his arms now and knowing the safety of a few moments of unconsciousness was upon him Sherlock allowed himself a few moments of unselfconsciousness. He gave in and let his head drop, resting his cheek atop John's head buried deep in his deceptively thick hair. He exhaled gently in relief then allowed himself a deep inhale, holding onto the scent, something to remember until, well as long as he could, or as long as he had to.

For a moment there was peace, for a single moment allowing him a lapse from cerebral control to simple desire. Since childhood punishments for pursuing bodily impulses combined with the ever growing power of his brain, as well as an awareness of how other people responded to him taught him not to need such things. He had indulged those baser instincts from time to time across the years. Some of which could be deemed experiments all of which were failures or at best inconclusive. Even before he had the words for it he knew where his desires lay, that same instinct and mind telling him there was nothing wrong with this meant there was never any question or shame as he was led to believe others felt. That wasn't the reason he fought suppressed and eliminated such desires, they were just trouble-and not the good kind.

Emotions, he corrected himself were trouble. So he pursued the commands of the flesh whenever his mind couldn't control it, luckily as he grew older work for the most part took care of such drives and what work couldn't fix cocaine or heroin could. There had been others, London was a city of virile young men for whom casual no strings sexual encounters were the Holy Grail. That was not to say such an approach wasn't without its drawbacks, drugs, casual affairs and occasional prostitution were troublesome in themselves, luckily he had a brother who relished the occasional smug bailout. Despite his gleeful taunts at catching his younger brother in compromising positions, and he did always catch him even when he didn't need help, it was merely a brotherly taunt, Mycroft knew who Sherlock was possibly before he even had, and had neither judged nor cared. Not that Sherlock was likely to acknowledge the gratitude he felt for that.

He sighed inwardly lifting his head and adjusting John's weight in his lap. Emotions indeed were the problem. He supported the other man's lolling head with a hand allowing his long fingers to gently brush his face and work their way up through his hair as he did so. A minor indulgence he conceded afforded by circumstance and allowed, well in order to keep him as close to sane as he was likely to get.

It was worse and better than he imagined having someone in the house. He didn't know of course when he invited him, moreover instructed him to live with him that by the end of the day he'd be hopelessly infatuated. Don't lie to yourself Holmes he chided, you knew when you winked and ran out the door. Liked yes, he acknowledged, amused by, yes, attracted in a weird magnetic way that a man with a penchant for knitwear could allow, true. But more, that was incomprehensible, even for him.

'Ridiculous' he said aloud, jerking John somewhat has he adjusted the dead weight in his lap but carefully maintaining his gentle hold on his head.

'No I'm not' murmured John. Sherlock dropped his grip on this head like a hot coal jerking John's head sharply foreword.

'Ow! What'd you do that for?'

'Nothing. Just waking you up' Sherlock recovered, assessing John in his confused state wouldn't notice the edge to his voice or his delay in response. John sat up, leant forward shaking his head.

'What happen... why am I on the floor?' he touched his head again 'I didn't….what…?'

'You were having a panic attach, then you fainted. I caught you-sort of.'

'Oh' John felt disoriented; his head seemed to belong to someone else. He had a sudden urge to sleep, still half conscious and sensing the warmth behind him he lent back. It felt sage there, where he'd just been. He lent back onto Sherlock's chest.

'John?' the ever softly spoke man was barely a whisper though he could feel the vibration through his head.

'Hmmm'

'I think you'd be more comfortable in a seat. I can...get tea...something' through the haze in his head John clearly heard a discomfort in the voice. Not from physical discomfort he reasoned, he was far smaller and although heavier set he'd seen Sherlock's sinewy limbs display surprising strength. He was only resting against his chest nestled comfortably with the lap of his endless legs.

A slow realisation dawned on John through his addled mind, that the discomfort might be less physical more mental, more dare he suggest it, emotional.

'Oh, I er, I...' he began to try and work his way to his feet, as visions flashes of moments past flashed across his brain and began to fall into place.

An awkward tangle of limbs intertwined and bumped uncomfortable as John attempted to rise and Sherlock to help him. Strength sapped from the ordeal John could barely coerce his limbs into moving never mind actually hauling himself upwards against gravity. Sherlock though elegant and lithe wasn't coordinated and his help quickly became hindrance sending them both crashing towards the ground several times before they were both upright.

Silence hung between them as they caught their breath and got their bearings, Sherlock averted his eyes suddenly interested in the sticky mass on the kitchen table. John opens his mouth to speak but nothing really comes out. He then realises Sherlock is staring at him.

'Wh-what' he manages confused by his shaking voice, glancing down and his hands they are also shaking, he becomes aware suddenly of convulsing shivers working their way through his body.

'You're shaking' Sherlock says a flicker of confusion crossing the blank mask he'd been cultivating.

'I-I I'm' John tried gripping the table to steady himself.

'What is it? What do you need?' there was urgency now was Sherlock furrowed his brows in concern.

'B-blanket' John managed 'C-c-cold. Shhhock'

Sherlock turned on his heel as John gripped the countertop and tried to hug himself in an attempt to keep himself warm. He tried to force his brain into medical mode, to tell him that this was a physiological reaction to the psychological trauma of his dreams and the resulting blackout. Soon the shivers and convulsions blacked out even that and he concentrated only on Sherlock's footfalls to and from the bedroom. He breathed a momentary sigh of relief as he felt heavy blankets fall on his shoulders.

Sherlock stepped back, mission accomplished unsure what to do and felt the blood drain from his own face as he looked at John, the man's face was ashen, somewhere beyond even his own alabaster completion and miles from his usual healthy tone. His lips were slightly blue and his body convulsed painfully as shivers racked his body. Sherlock was paralysed, helpless-criminals he could beat off-after a fashion, explosives he could defuse or set off as the situation required, chemicals he could mix but biology, medicine that was John's area.

'What do I do?' he blurted out, panicked.

Through his convulsions John snorted a half laugh at the absurdity of Sherlock Holmes at a loss, but then caught the panic written across his face and felt something inside him burn.

'W-wa-armth' he spluttered. 'J-us-st need to w-w-arm up.' He tried to look reassuring as he struggled to stay upright. 'Sh-sh-ock' he tried to placate Sherlock who was now it seemed frozen either in fear or confusion-again something burned through him at that thought but not in a way to warm him.

'Blankets!' Sherlock suddenly exclaimed and sprang to life, retrieving more from the expanse of dead space that lived behind the sofa in a flurry of frenzied activity he recovered a pile of blankets in various states of disrepair and what looked like another silk dressing gown identical to the one he was wearing. He set about trying to pile them onto John, succeeding somewhat until basic laws of gravity and area of John's body conspired against him and he was left with a pile of blankets on the floor and John still shivering.

He looked blankly at his flatmate for help, John seemingly recovered slightly in terms of clarity of mind but increasing in his shivering convulsions managed a condescending look and a gasped 'Bed'

Sherlock's brain was again momentarily frozen confused he blinked and shook his head before the pieces fell into place. Warmth. Bed. Right. Ok. Emotion, he decided if that was what he'd been feeling tonight was indeed he had long suspected at the expense of mental faculties. Again he sprang into action adrenaline more than thought powering his movements and he swept an arm around John and guided him swiftly towards his bedroom.

John felt himself pushed along by sheer force of mind rather than physical coercion once Sherlock had made a decision. As was typical in their working life once Sherlock's mind made a decision John's body followed, he allowed himself to be guided across the living room to Sherlock's room, obviously he concluded, it was the nearest and Sherlock had sensed and urgency and finally convinced his body to match it. John couldn't let his mind stray to the why and wherefore of Sherlock's confusion once his body began to repair itself, if he could just get warm he would trouble himself with other concerns.

He felt himself pushed gently onto a soft surface, he assumed was the bed he felt underneath him sheets of an even to his untrained sensibilities a clearly superior quality to his own. Blankets were momentarily ripped from his body sending the convulsions of cold into overdrive for a moment but quickly replaced by a soft and heavy duvet that smelled of expensive shampoo. He let his eyes drift closed for a moment, vaguely aware that perhaps he shouldn't allow himself to sleep just yet, but giving in to the momentary comfort. The warmth still wasn't enough however and after a moment adjusting to the new temperature he felt his body begin to shake again. He groaned aloud.

'What? I did bed, I did blankets. What do you need?' John heard impatience in Sherlock's voice but knew it was with himself at not being able to solve the problem, not at John's incapacitation. He could no longer form any words though as he fought and willed his body to cooperate to calm down, he was exhausted.

Sherlock paced his room watching from the corner of his eye as John continued to shake under the blanket. He must be tiring by now the impact of the dream, the panic attack the blackout and ironically his body's reaction to all three was draining him of the ability to fight it. His mind raced the condition was at least in part psychosomatic but was also partly a physical reaction to stress, he needed to treat the latter in order to attempt the former or at least to allow John to deal with the former himself. He was running out of time, allowing John to continue in this way for too long would certainly result in a longer recovery if not some kind of physical damage or illness. Think Sherlock he scolded, he needs warmth blankets aren't enough, bed isn't enough. Water, hot water a shower-no a bath-but that would take time and might result in a chill of some kind. Ok a fire in the living room, again time and there was no fuel it was July. Hot water bottle? Tea? Not enough. John groaned again and dragged the duvet closer around his body as if attempting to trap warmth, as if it were a living thing that could radiate heat. Suddenly it fell into place and Sherlock moved as if pursuing a runaway criminal.

John felt the heavy thud on the bed and a gust of air as the duvet lifted, suddenly arms and legs entangled his own and he felt a soft brush of hair and breath on his neck while the limbs squeezed him so tightly he thought he must have been falling. And there was silence.

John's body shook two, three times with enough force to almost dislodge Sherlock-he couldn't imagine what that felt like internally then it began to slow, once twice a minute the force lessening each time. Sherlock gripped tighter as if he was holding on to John preventing him from getting away. After about what Sherlock calculated as ten minutes John began a gentle shivering like someone in the cold with too thin a jacket and Sherlock relaxed his grip just a little to allow him room to breathe, scared to move too far in case it came back.

He felt Sherlock release his grip slightly and realised it was subsiding, he began to breathe deeper again, his chest ached as if he'd run miles and he took in one great lungful of air after another still trying to steady his body and mind. He felt Sherlock exhale onto his neck and shift his head slightly, his face pressed into his bad shoulder probably able to feel the scar through his t shirt. They lay in silence for a moment each recovering too afraid to move in case it wasn't over yet. Or perhaps in case it was.

Long minutes passed and Sherlock became aware of himself again, the survival instinct he had felt not for himself but for John was passed and he was now acutely aware of it and himself. He felt his legs one hooked over John's hip the other under his lower leg, he felt his arms binding around John's chest, hands laid now on what he realised were still well defined pectorals and one on his lower stomach. And he felt his face buried deep in John's shoulder where the bullet had exited overwhelmed by the scent and feel of his body against his face. His own body tensed at realisation.

John felt the tension run through Sherlock from the feet that were entwined in his own to the hands on his chest and stomach and he felt, no sensed the discomfort in the head resting against his shoulder. He wanted to move to do something anything but he feared any movement no matter how small would sent Sherlock scampering like a rabbit and he didn't know how long it would take to get him back from this. He knew the other man well enough to know what a leap this was, physical contact on any scale being what it was to Sherlock, to this. And if John was right, if his jumbled brain had processed correctly what he thought it had this was to be handled carefully. Speech, reason rather than action.

'Sherlock' John said so very softly not trusting his voice again so soon, surprised when it came clearly. There was no reply. Sherlock clearly didn't trust his own voice.

'Sherlock. Show me that you can hear me' a pause. A barely perceptible nod against his shoulder. 'Thank you'

Sherlock breathed again. He had to answer they had to return to something some dialogue, to move past this, so he might forget the strangeness these unfamiliar physical sensations of touch were causing. Something equally unfamiliar ached at the thought.

'Better?' he asked. John felt the words literally vibrate through him as Sherlock barely moved his head.

'Thank you' he acknowledged. He couldn't say any more, couldn't infer. It had to be Sherlock's move away or-

His train of thought was interrupted by movement, a nod against his shoulder he'd first missed then a moving of legs then arms. Before he realised he'd done it John grabbed Sherlock's right hand just as it began to leave his stomach. He held for a moment tightly until the movement stopped then softened.

Sherlock froze, he'd made a snap decision, get out, get out now leave him and that's that but he was stopped. Nobody ever stopped him. He froze. His breathing became shallow as an edge of panic rose in him again; he was tiring of this sensation. John's grasp on him softened but didn't release.

'Stay' John said an edge of the assured man Sherlock knew returning through the haze and confusion of this whole strange night.

'John...I...' he was lost for words. Unheard of. But he didn't have words. He was confused, anxious. His fingers curled in tension under John's hand and he felt the touch returned with gentleness he breathed slightly again.

'Stay' he repeated.

Sherlock breathed deeply into John's neck and nodded forcing his muscles to relax, feeling the heavy weight of John's hand on his, the comfortable pressure of limbs intertwined. They breathed in the silence together the darkness now safe and quiet until morning.


End file.
